


An Exploration of Humanity-- Collection of Short Stories, Poems, and Play Scripts

by Mira_Image



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M, Gen, Original Character(s), Prose Poem, Screenplay/Script Format, Short One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-15
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-28 20:59:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17794646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mira_Image/pseuds/Mira_Image
Summary: Here are some personal works of mine! Some are funny, some are sad, some make you think.They all have one thing in common: SURPRISE PLOT TWISTSThey're really fun to read!! OWOGone Shopping, I'll Be Home Soon:A man waits for his wife to come home from shopping, and discovers a horrifying truth about himself.Decisions Must be Made, Dr. Dreffeint:What does it mean to hold power over others? Over yourself? How far will you go to keep it?Kids These Days:Two old ladies in a cafe are very confused as to what that boy is doing with his phone.There's a Stain:A McDonalds opens in a small town, and the change ripples through the lives of many. Suddenly, a homeless man sits outside its door day and night. Who is he? What is he really after?Collecting Dust:War in every household. A short poem that finds humanity in dust. Heavy Metaphor, but think of borders and refugees.Black Thumb:This poem will change how you see dried flowers forever.The Perfume She Wears:What does a child think their mother's perfume smells like?





	1. Gone Shopping, I'll Be Home Soon -- Short Story! (Makes you think)

Enclosed in these paneled walls are darkness, stale air, and a housefly. Its buzzes fade out of existence, alluding to a sense of peace, until a violent crescendo of chaos abruptly overwhelms the senses. A righteous slap rings through the air and the buzzing ceases, replaced with the rhythmic pulses of the inner ear and the sting of my cheek.

My tongue rubs against cracked lips, tasting salt. I stretch and sigh like a domestic cat, clenching my muscles to take more pleasure in loosening them. The blankets, sticky with sweat, peel away eventually and my feet make contact with the shaggy plum-colored carpet. Blurry red numbers glow on my digital alarm clock. 4:03. My alarm is set for 5. My shift starts at 6.

"Finally. It deserved what was coming to it." I grumble under my breath, hoping to rub the drowsiness out of my eyes. I might as well use the bathroom before trying to get some more sleep.

My feet drag across the dusty carpet with difficulty, carrying a body under the heavy influence of gravity. Taking the initiative for my sagging brain, my legs move towards the bathroom on their own. The door is made of the same wood as the walls, and opens inwards to a small porcelain room that is somehow darker than the surrounding space. My mind blanks as I stand in the doorway, one hand still on the handle. Spotting the white cabinet, I open the doors and pull out a can of bug spray.

"It'll get what's coming. Can't believe I have to wake up early for this." I sigh, shuffling towards my bed and tugging on the cord of my bedside lamp.

"Click." replies the lamp, blinding me with its investigative search. The room's colors fade into being like a polaroid: dark grey sheets, yellow lamp shade, brown panels and matching bedside table, green closet. No fly.

Wrinkling my eyebrows, I comb the space briefly for the winged devil that interrupted my sleep. It evades my search. Regretfully accepting defeat, my feet choose to retreat before my eyes do. A small fragile body crunches underfoot, breaking open and releasing snotty goo. Disgusted shudders rack up my spine and I quickly move my foot away, crouching to see the fly's mangled corpse buried between the twizzler-shaped rug strings. My lips push my cheeks back in a victorious grin, and I rise over the fallen foe.

I leave the spray on the table and saunter towards my closet. Despite having only bought it a year prior, the moss-green paint is already showing signs of peeling. Just goes to show you can't trust cheap merchandise. I rummage through musty clothes for my blue jumpsuit. Oh, that's right. Dora always tells me to hang it so it won't get wrinkled, but honestly, no one in that cheap brass factory cares what the janitor's jumpsuit looks like. Cleaning the pots of melted brass has caused my hands over three dozen burns in the past year alone. They look like they've aged fifty years ahead of me. The love and dedication that I invest in my work is worth more than a hundred ironed jumpsuits.

I slip it on and open my bedroom door, which leads into the kitchen. Dishes from last night's supper still sit in the sink; the smell of rotting food lingers faintly in the air.

"Aww, Dora, I can't believe you didn't clean up last night." I lament, my features softening.

I've been married to her for little over a year now, however she still has yet to settle into being a wife. She forgets to vacuum, to cook, to wash my clothes, but I forgive and love her with all my heart. I love the way her laugh makes the freckle on her nose twitch, and how her mess of curly hair bounces when she takes a step. I love how she doesn't feel the need to dress up for me, often wearing the same beige dress for days. I love how when I just want to pass out on the couch after a long day of work, she'll sit next to me and cut collages out of magazines.

My heart sighs and I run a hand through my still-sweaty hair. She laughs when I get too hot under the duvet. She always says: "Oh honey, you've been... y- you're..."

My train of thought derails. I shake my head a little and blink a couple of times. My bladder feels like a bowling ball all of a sudden. I run my hand over the dining room table as I make my way back to the master bedroom; my fingers brush against a piece of paper.

Without looking down, I scoop the paper up and bring it up to my face. It's in Dora's handwriting.

_Gone shopping, I'll be home soon._

I set the note back on the table and grimace. The kitchen window is concealed behind a thin pink curtain. There are no signs of sunlight shining through the fabric. It's gotten dark, has Dora not returned from shopping yet? My poor Dora is so hopeless, but I can take care of myself. I tug open the refrigerator. The stale white light shines on a carton of eggs, a bottle of mustard, an empty jug of milk, and Dora's pink scrapbook. I gingerly flip open a few pages to see what she cut out this week, then replace it in the fridge without a second thought.

I rub my sore back, feeling the wiry muscles protest. I've had such a day. I just want her home to make dinner. Is that so much to ask for?

A thought crosses my mind and I light up. I shimmy over to the sink and turn on the tap, then snatch a pan and begin scrubbing it. Dora will be so happy to come home and see the kitchen clean. We could even cook together, like on our honeymoon.

It takes me a few moments to realize that the water is cold. I double check to make sure I turned the knob with a little red H on the front... and I had. My hand slowly grinds to a stop and I let the pan and sponge go. I shut my eyes and place a hand on my head, trying to think. Finally, one word dawns on my mind: Basement. The hot water tank must be acting up.

I leave the kitchen behind and open the white door to the basement, taking careful steps down into the dark. The light switch is somewhere along the wall at the bottom; my hands fumble for it.

"Click." says the light bulb, with a bright and welcoming smile.

The basement smells like the rest of the house: old. Boxes cover the walls like wallpaper, climbing high with no labelling whatsoever. The hot water tank should be down here, somewhere. A shiny surface reflects the light of the lamp, attracting attention to it. I can't help but approach, and with every step the glare of the light shifts, revealing it to be a mirror. I watch in silent horror as an old man approaches me from the other side of the reflection. His body has sagged with age, the elasticity of the skin long gone, leaving behind nothing but melted flesh. Blue bumpy veins split a hundred times on his wrists and neck, occasionally hidden by liver spots. My eyes squint, utterly horrified at the creature in the blue jumpsuit. I take a few shaky steps back as my vision blurs with tears. How could I have lost so many years of my life so suddenly? Dora and I have only just gotten married, we were going to have children together. I was going to finally quit that terrible job and become something greater, to support my family. I was going to help her more around the house, and play catch with my son, and teach my children to follow their hearts instead of their wallets. I was going to do so much... I...

I heave big jagged breaths, trembling like a leaf.

"Dora... Dora!" I sob, running for the stairs. What else have I forgotten? The heater, the scrapbook, the dishes, the... I reach the kitchen and see a piece of paper on the dining room table. Hesitantly, I pick it up.

_Gone shopping, I'll be home soon._

The paper is crushed in my quivering fists, and I let it fall back onto the table. I press a hand against my chest in an attempt to stop myself from taking in such frantic breaths. In a haze, I make my way to the couch and slump. It feels like an anvil is sitting on my heart. I'll tell Dora what I saw when she gets home from shopping.

Gradually, my heart rate slows. A few straggling sighs escape my lips before my breathing finally regains its usual quiet rhythm. The house falls silent. I feel the television remote in my hand and let it go. Groaning as I stand, I catch a glance at the window. Streams of light press against the pink curtain. I should go wake up Dora, so she can make breakfast before I go to work. There's an uncomfortable feeling in my stomach, as if I'm missing something.

I remember that I have to use the bathroom. As I cross the kitchen to the master bedroom, I spot a crumpled piece of paper on the dining room table. I snatch it and toss it into the nearby trash.


	2. Decisions Must Be Made, Dr. Dreffeint -- Short Story! (Drama)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Did you know that some heart surgeries require you to replace a part with that of a pig? Mr. Ick found out this morning. His wife won't let him get the surgery.  
> Dr. Dreffeint has performed surgeries for years, but is secretly disgusted and can hardly watch his own hands as they do everything for him.  
> What does it mean to hold power over others? Over yourself? How far will you go to keep it?

"From what we can gather, the mortality rate is sixty percent after ten years."

She takes in a long breath... then writes what the doctor said in her little black notebook. When she is done, she rests her pen on his desk.

Her husband attempts to clear his throat, but phlegm sticks in the airway and he doubles over, coughing violently. He looks up through a thin veil of tears as his hoarse voice finally escapes.

"If there's no other way, that's fine."

She shoots him a stinging look and grabs her pen. "Talk us through it, Dr. Wens."

Both men buckle under the uncomfortable weight of her stare. The doctor's chair groans as he reaches for his files. Out of the corner of her eye, her husband is playing with a nearby potted plant, ripping the dark, rich leaves and revealing their sticky green interior. She pinches him hard enough that he stops breathing and shuts his eyes tight, dropping the leaves in submission.

The pages stop turning.

"Well, Mr. Ick, it seems your right ventricle has been deformed since birth. The chordae tendineae do not relax effectively for the tricuspid valve to fully open, resulting in your frequent bouts of dizziness and fatigue. The longer we wait, the more this will affect you, and it could eventually be fatal. Due to your intolerance of anticoagulant drugs, the surgery we recommend for you would replace your valve with that of a pig."

The ringing in her ears overwhelms the silence that follows. Everything loses focus... loses importance. She reaches out and touches her husband's hand, hoping that will break her sudden crushing isolation _. This surgery must be avoided at all costs,_  she thinks, and knows her husband will agree.

"We will wait." She articulates clearly, her words being the only thing she still trusts in this office. The doctor's hand slips and papers vomit across the floor.

~*~

Months pass. Her husband doesn't. This lets her feel hopeful. Cutting an eggplant in the kitchen, she hums to herself.

A weak voice travels across the house. "Cyrza, are we having dinner soon?"

"Yes!" She calls back over her shoulder. She slides the chopped eggplant into the frying pan. It pops and sizzles in the oil, sending up a wave of faintly odorous steam.

"What are we having?" the voice calls a little louder, more curious.

"Fried eggplant and chicken!"

She hears a quiet groan. "Oh c'mon, Hun, you know I don't like it when you make those!"

Cyrza turns up the heat. "Well, I'm making them!"

"I'm coming over there, just you wait." He grumbles from afar, and she hears shuffling noises from across the hall. The shuffling noises stop. She steps away from the stove and peers out into the hallway. "Sergio?"

Her eyes fall on her husband's unmoving frame spread across the hardwood. He moves his head enough to look up at her disturbed expression, then gently sets it back onto the floor.

"I'm tired, Cyrza. Can we have dinner later?"

"Oh, my love," she sighs. "Dinner can wait."

Cyrza leaves him in the hallway and beelines to the stationary telephone.

403-944-1110. She types this from memory and without hesitation.

Sergio waits patiently for her to finish her dialogue. Her footsteps sound harsh on the hardwood, though her body language is relaxed. She beds down by her husband's head and runs her fingers through his hair. They spend a quiet moment together like this.

"Dr. Wens said your condition has gotten dangerously severe. Your operation is next week." Cyrza tells him. "He assures me that Dr. Dreffeint has years of experience. He can fix you."

The only sign of acknowledgement Sergio gives is a drained sigh. Cyrza straightens and makes her way back to the kitchen.

The eggplant has blackened beyond recognition. Realizing her carelessness, her lips part as she draws in a quiet breath. Her whole body tightens unconsciously, from her throat to her face to her fists. Her eyes gloss over as her chest swells to bursting.

The frying pan hits the wall before she knew she had moved.

His voice trickles into the room. "Cyrza, what happened?"

"The eggplant is ruined. I have no use for it now."

~*~

Dr. Dreffeint envies his own hands. One rocks back and forth as it cuts into the patient's chest, the other squishes the skin aside. It feels like soft rubber in the sun. His hands are calm, collected, and sure of themselves. They move without hesitation or need for affirmation. His own hands don't need him.

The saw forces its way across the breastbone with difficulty. The inoffensive smell of fresh meat and blood mingles with the harsh chemicals haunting the air. The surgeon can feel his own chest tighten to the point of restricting his breathing. His patient's sordid body stands out in this sterile environment like a tumor in muscle. Once the breastbone has been carved apart, he puts the saw down on the thin metal table at his side and closes his eyes, so that he can urge his aching lungs to expand and contract.

Two metal hooks, joined by a wire, dig into the undersides of each half of the breastbone. His patient's chest jerks upwards with every crank that pulls the wire, until it swells to monstrous proportions. Inside the gaping hole, exposed under the brilliant light of the operating lamp, is a pulsing ball of damp flesh encapsulated by large blood vessels. Every part of the surgeon, besides his hands, is shaking. The hands continue to work on attaching tubes from the cardio-pulmonary bypass machine to one major vein and artery. A third tube flushes the heart with cardioplegia, stopping the rhythmic pulsing completely. These actions are all innate to his hands, which disregard the surgeon's feelings like a tired housewife disregards her child's behavior.

Dr. Dreffeint can see how morphed the body lying on the operating table is becoming. It is a machine of tubes and wires, covered in rubber skin and filled with slimy, convulsing meat.

The surgeon pauses. He regretfully recognizes that he'll never be at ease during an operation. Despite a decade of surgeries, the bodies remain almost impossible to look at.

~*~

Dr. Dreffeint usually spends the hours after an operation alone, recovering. Coffee helps. However, this time, a woman refuses to let him be.

"You were breathtaking, Dr. Dreffeint. I've never seen such confidence and concentration. It was magical to watch."

Mrs. Ick's dry lips smack and quiver, forming and dissolving words in her mouth. She swallows.

"Thank you, Mrs. Ick." Dr. Dreffeint finally forces himself to reply, "It was very fortuitous of you to witness tricuspid valve repair surgery."

She's standing close enough that he can see the pores of her skin. Some are darker than they should be. A negative reaction threatens to break through his tight façade.

Her wet eyes stare up at his. He watches her hip cock to the side, one leg cross over the other, and her index finger twirls a stay lock of hair. She thinks herself beautiful.

"When you told me the valve could be repaired instead of replaced, I could feel myself melt with relief. You are brilliant, Dr. Dreffeint."

The surgeon's strained smile wavers. "It's good to feel appreciated, Mrs. Ick."

She lingers there, waiting for the surgeon to say something else. He decides to tell her something reassuring. Perhaps something reassuring is what Mrs. Ick is looking for in this conversation.

"Today was an excellent day for a surgery." He announces. The shine in her eyes glosses over momentarily.

"Why is that?" She quizzes in a slightly harsher tone of voice. Dr. Dreffeint clears his throat, ignoring her lapse of character. He doesn't blame her for having put up an act, because to him every interaction is a social minefield.

"The surgery was coincidentally scheduled on the first day of a Chinook."

That's right. Nothing was more important to him than the peace of mind that a Chinook brings. The cold that stings his legs, burns his toes, and freezes the mucus in his nostrils, ebbs away for a few short days. It reminds him of the potential of spring, and the annual end of this nightmare. If the hospitals in Portland hadn't been packed to bursting with doctors, he would never have accepted a job in Calgary. Still, Calgary has the blessing of Chinooks. For a few days, he does not have to plan his steps around the ice, hanging his head down to peer at the dangers of a winter's sidewalk. For a few days, he feels more confident. For a few days, nature blesses him. Never have one of his surgeries gone wrong during a Chinook.

She draws in a long breath, her finger dropping away from the stray hair. The level of attention present in her expression as he describes the importance of a Chinook is astonishing. He did not know what to make of her, not at all.

Perhaps she was not so displeasing to the eye as he'd previously decided.

~*~

The bedroom is always dark these days. Sergio lies motionless, trying to sleep away the pain that's gripped him for almost two weeks. A long jagged scar creeps down the center of his chest. Black stitches grab bunches of skin and hold on tight. Tight enough to hurt.

Through the door and across the hall, he can hear her muffled singing. Cyrza always does something musical when she cooks, from singing, to humming, to tapping tablespoons on the countertop. He retreats into himself, weighing in his mind the extent of his hunger. The emptiness he feels inside, shrivelling and aching, is coming from his stomach. At this point in time, the need for food outweighs the need for sleep.

The bed sheets follow him as he stands. They fall onto the carpet, grabbing his legs and begging for him to stay. He pulls away, disregarding their silent sobbing pleas. They watch helplessly as he makes his way to the one he loves.

She has chocolate strawberries and a full face of makeup on a Saturday afternoon. He picks up a strawberry from behind and Cyrza slaps his hand without hesitation.

"Sergio!" She gasps, as if only just recognizing that the hand she slapped was his. He pulls her close, but not too close, for fear of his broken flesh pressing against hers. Cyrza backs away, sidestepping around the fallen strawberry, and returns to the task of stirring the melted chocolate in the pot.

"Chocolate strawberries for lunch. What's the occasion?" Sergio asks, bending over slowly to reach for the strawberry he dropped.

She notices what he's doing and snaps. "Don't touch that! It's not fit to eat anymore."

With health on her side, she plucks the strawberry from the tiles and drops it into the trash before he can do more than bend forwards. Sergio straightens to face her faster than he should have. His breathing loses its reassuring rhythm and begins to improvise. Spots adorn anything he turns to, buzzing with violent intensity. He feels a hand on his shoulder, gently guiding him to the dining room chair. A few moments pass, allowing for Sergio not only to recover his senses, but also his dignity. He fakes a cough and tucks his shirt into his pants, hoping to seem more in control. His wife slowly floods back into his mind, first through her humming, and second through his gaze.

"Cyrza," he says hoarsely, "what are you humming this time?"

The stirring spoon clangs against the hot pot of melted chocolate. There is strain in her tone of voice.

"I forget the name, Sergio. It's a song about a city girl, by the Eagles. Did you know there's a Chinook today?"

She sets a plate of chocolate strawberries down in front of him and joins him at the table. He gazes at her makeup-induced radiance.

"You look beautiful today, Hun." He tells her, then picks up a strawberry so he can busy his shaky hands. She gives him a gentle smile in thanks, though her eyes are on her watch. Sergio waits for her to divert her attention back to him.

"Come on then, eat." Cyrza insists, gesturing to the strawberries. "Your appointment is in half an hour. We are  _not_  going to be late."

Sergio watches his wife's expression darken with every passing moment. He avoids her eyes, diverting his gaze to the right of her head to look straight past the kitchen to the front door. A Tupperware of strawberries with a sticky note on its lid sits innocently beside her purse, ready to follow Cyrza anywhere. She'll be bringing lunch to Dr. Dreffeint again, most likely to apologize for leaving her lipstick behind yesterday. He glares at those strawberries with a hate he did not expect.

"Sergio, eat!" She hisses. His eyes fall on her.

"Cyrza, Hun," he says carefully. "Why are you dressed so nicely?"

"Too many questions, and not enough eating, Sergio." She dismisses him, biting into one of his strawberries.

"Don't ignore me on this, Cyrza!" He barks suddenly, grabbing her arm from across the table.

Her jaw drops open and she tries to wrestle free of his grip. "Let go of me, Sergio! What has gotten into you?"

"You've never stayed with me during my appointments with Dr. Wens. You're always 'in the bathroom', or 'chatting with the receptionist'. His hands..." He growls, squeezing harder to keep his own hands from shaking. His scar is burning. "His hands have been inside of me. Where else have his hands been, Cyrza?"

She wrenches free of his harsh hold, horrified.

"How _dare_  you, Sergio! You've gone mad from lack of pain medication!"

"Oh, I'm mad, Hun." He steams, rising from his seat. "The makeup, the strawberries, the lunch. Why did you make such an effort? Is it for me? Can I enjoy the Tupperware of strawberries after my gruellingly long appointment?"

"Fine, Sergi— "

"Call me  _my love!_ " He roars, engulfed with emotion. Never has he felt this strongly about his suspicions. Never in this marriage has he felt  _this much power._

"Yes. My. Love." She squeezes through gritted teeth. "Yes! To celebrate your surgery! If you hadn't spent all day moaning in our bedroom—"

"Shut up!" He orders, practically trembling. "Shut the F— Shut the  _Fuck_  up!"

She strikes him in the chest, her eyes bleeding with tears. Pain sears through his whole body and he collapses, gasping for air. He can't breathe. He can't see. He can't hear through the pain. Cyrza's blurry frame mingles with the spots, shrinking towards the front door. The slam rattles his brain.

Alone on the tiled floor, the emotions he'd reserved for the quiet privacy of his thoughts burst out of every orifice, every pore. The husband screams until he can't hear his own voice, cries until his tear ducts beg for him to stop, sobs until his lungs sag with exhaustion.

His body has had enough. He's had enough.

His heart fails him.


	3. Kids These Days -- Play Script! (Comedy)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two old ladies in a cafe are very confused as to what that boy is doing with his phone.

(this is a play script, so don't be confused about the style of writing. enjoy!)

 

 

Characters:

DEBBY, an old woman

ANGIE, DEBBY's younger sister

WAITER

BOY

MAN

 

Setting:

An empty plaza with a small café on the left. The café's entrance is the Downstage Left Exit. Two little tables and four chairs are placed Downstage Left and Downstage Left Center. The tables each have a small bowl of packages of cream and sugar.

[ _Enter_ BOY  _Upstage Right._  BOY  _leans on the rear wall and looks at his phone. Enter_ ANGIE _and_ DEBBY _Upstage Left._ DEBBY _is clutching her purse tightly._ ]

ANGIE: See, I told you this was the right way.

DEBBY: Oh for crying out loud, Angie, how many ways were there really. You were bound to guess right. I admit, though, that this place does look charming, and very open.

ANGIE: Shall we sit?

DEBBY: Of course we'll sit. It's what we came here for, after all. Waiter!

[ANGIE  _and_ DEBBY _sit at the Downstage Left Center table._ ]

DEBBY: Waiter! Bloody hell, Waiter!

[DEBBY _opens her purse and rummages through it. She pulls out a pillbox and opens it, laying the pills on the table in a row._ ]

DEBBY: The nerve of these people, always taking their sweet, sweet time, never caring about the customer. Waiter!

[ _Enter_  WAITER _Downstage Left._ ]

WAITER: Oui, Madame?

DEBBY: Cut that French shit, we both know this is tourist country. Speak English already!

WAITER: I- I—

DEBBY: I'll have a hazelnut espresso with a sugar and two creams.

ANGIE: And I'll get a vanilla latte, you Frenchie you.

DEBBY: Well? Come on then, go! What's keeping you?

WAITER: Well, ma'am, the cream and sugar is already on the table.

[ _A pause._ ]

DEBBY: A— absolutely not! Who knows how old that cream and sugar is? I see dust! I want my cream and sugar added in the kitchen.

WAITER: Ma'am, I—

DEBBY: Did I stutter? Get out of here!

WAITER: Of course.

[ _Exit_ WAITER _Downstage Left._ ]

DEBBY: How can this be called the city of love when no one seems to give a shit? Bloody hell.

[ANGIE _looks over at the_ BOY.  _The_ BOY _is repeatedly swiping right on his phone. He is smiling._ ]

ANGIE: Actually, I think there's a little too much love going on over there.

DEBBY: What? Where?

[DEBBY _notices the_ BOY _. A pause._ ]

DEBBY: What is that? What is he doing with his finger?

ANGIE: I think I know. Teenagers today can meet people on the internet using applications, and you need to swipe when you start the relationship. The application's name has something to do with kindling, if I remember correctly.

DEBBY: What? Are you sure?

ANGIE: I can't think of another reason for why he'd be smiling like that.

DEBBY: So he's – that scum!

ANGIE: Sorry?

DEBBY: Don't you see how much he's swiping? Those poor women, he's taking all of them!

ANGIE: Oh my, you're right.

DEBBY: Look at him go, with that stupid goofy grin on his face! What must he be thinking? I'll tell you, he must be thinking that a woman's heart is just some plaything! I bet he's only in it for the sex!

ANGIE: Good lord! Debby, you shouldn't say such things. Honestly, what would mother say?

[ _A pause._ ]

DEBBY: You know what? Fine. I'll go ask him.

ANGIE: Goodness.

[DEBBY  _stands. She walks into Center Stage and faces the_ BOY.]

DEBBY: That looks like fun, what are you up to?

[ _The_ BOY _looks up and pockets his phone._ ]

BOY: Oh, I'm playing a game. It's really popular.

DEBBY: So I've heard. You swipe to get them, right?

BOY: That's right.

DEBBY: How many have you got?

BOY: More than I can count!

[DEBBY _walks up to the_ BOY.]

DEBBY: Do you really think it's just a game?

BOY: What? Well, I guess.

[DEBBY  _slaps the_ BOY.]

DEBBY: You should be ashamed of yourself! What are you trying to do? Catch them all? Don't you have a soul? And at such a young age, you already have no morals!

[ _The_ BOY  _begins to cry._ ]

DEBBY: That's right, how does it feel to cry like all of those you've entrapped in a fake, loveless relationship?

[ _The_ BOY _runs away and exits Downstage Right._ ]

DEBBY ( _To the_ BOY _)_ : Redeem yourself or burn in hell, you bastard!

ANGIE: Dear God, so it is true. You were right to ask him, Debby. I'm sorry I tried to hold my tongue.

[DEBBY _starts to walk back to the table._ ]

DEBBY: I taught him a lesson he shan't soon forget. If you see something wrong with the world, change it or keel over and die, I say.

[ _Enter_ WAITER  _Downstage Left, holding a tray with two coffees. He places them without speaking and exits Downstage Left._ ]

ANGIE: Finally! That darned waiter took so long!

DEBBY: Oh, sweetie, don't even try. You don't have the heart for it.

[DEBBY _rummages through her purse and pulls out a water bottle. She takes all of her pills at once and drinks the entire contents of the water bottle. She crushes the plastic bottle in her fist and leaves it on the table. She grabs her purse and walks towards the Downstage Right exit._ ]

ANGIE: Aren't you going to drink your coffee?

DEBBY: There's no sense in staying here, dear. It's lost all of its charm. Besides, the waiter probably spat in it.

[ _Exit_ DEBBY _Downstage Right._ ANGIE _stands slowly and pulls some wrinkled bills from her pocket. She puts them on the table. A pause._ ]

ANGIE: Cheer up, Angie. What would mother say?

[Angie  _makes her voice sound older and harsher_ ]

ANGIE: Be tougher, Angela. Be better, Angela. Like your sister, Angela.

[ _A long pause._ ]

ANGIE: Wait for me, Debby!

[ _Exit_  ANGIE _Downstage Right. A long pause. Enter_ MAN  _Upstage Right. He is staring at the phone in his hand. He waves the phone around as if searching for something through it, then stops at Center Stage._ ]

MAN: I found one!

[ _The_ MAN _swipes up on his screen repeatedly. He abruptly stops._ ]

MAN: Ugh, I ran out of poke balls. I think this café is a recharge spot.

[ _The_ MAN _approaches the tables. He stops and swipes right repeatedly. He notices the coffees and looks around, then picks up the espresso and takes a sip. He grimaces and puts it back._ MAN  _exits Upstage Left._ ]


	4. There's a Stain -- Play Script! (Drama)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A McDonalds opens in a small town, and the change ripples through the lives of many. Suddenly, a homeless man sits outside its door day and night. Who is he? What is he really after?

(this is a play script, don't be confused by the style of writing! enjoy!)

 

 

Characters:

HOMELESS, the homeless man

DUKE, a man

CHARLOTTE, CHARLES' elderly wife

CHARLES. CHARLOTTE's elderly husband

PENNY, a child and BENJAMIN's friend

BENJAMIN, a child

STAN, a shopkeeper

ROSS, a friend of the shopkeeper

Setting:

A street in a small town, with a McDonalds standing out from the cozy cottage shops. A HOMELESS man sits slightly off center, leaning against the rear wall. He is dressed in stained rags and wears a large hat, concealing his face. Two street lamps are placed on the Downstage Left and Right corners. Next to the street lamp on the right is a public trashcan. To the right of the McDonalds is a fuse box. The stage lighting is so low that the stage is almost completely dark.

[ _Enter_ STAN  _Upstage Right, yawning and stretching. He opens the panel of the fuse box and flicks two switches. The street lamps turn on and the stage is bathed in light. He pulls out a key and unlocks the door to the McDonalds. Enter_ ROSS  _Upstage Left._ ]

ROSS: Mornin', Stan.

STAN: Hiya Ross. Is it a little early for your mornin' coffee, or am I just late?

ROSS: Little from column A, little from column B. I wanna get in before the rush, you know?

STAN: I hear ya.

[STAN  _and_ ROSS  _glance at_ HOMELESS]

STAN: Business is booming.

[STAN  _opens the door of the McDonalds and they both head inside. A steady flow of people walk in and out of stage, the majority of them entering and exiting the McDonalds. Enter_ CHARLOTTE and CHARLES  _Downstage Left_ ,  _locking arms_ ]

CHARLOTTE: Goodness, it's as if the entire town was here.

CHARLES: What have I been telling you, Charlotte? Everything's different now.

CHARLOTTE: I just didn't want to believe it. My favorite coffee shop used to sit there. It all just felt slower back then.

CHARLES: Oh, dear, you're looking pale. Best we move on.

CHARLOTTE: And who's that man? I thought there were no homeless in our little town.

CHARLES: Best we get going, darling.

CHARLOTTE: But Charles, what if he needs help?

CHARLES: I knew I shouldn't have taken you here. You're so pale. We're getting you home.

[ _Exit_ CHARLES  _and_ CHARLOTTE  _Downstage Right. The passers by stop entering the stage. Enter_ PENNY  _and_  BENJAMIN _from the door of the McDonalds. They are each holding a Happy Meal bag. PENNY pulls out a toy from the bag and frowns._ ]

PENNY: What? This has got to be a joke. I've never seen a toy this bad. That was the whole reason I bought this stupid Happy Meal!

[PENNY  _throws the toy through the Upstage Right exit._ BENJAMIN  _pulls out a burger from his Happy Meal bag._ ]

BENJAMIN: Maybe the burgers are better.

[PENNY  _pulls out a burger from her bag and the two children take a bite. After a pause, they frown._ ]

PENNY: Your mom was so wrong, Ben. I hate this.

[PENNY  _walks Downstage to the trash can._ ]

BENJAMIN: Wait, Penny! I know you don't like it, but maybe we can give it to him today.

[BENJAMIN  _turns to look at the_ HOMELESS _, who still hasn't moved._ ]

PENNY: That is even stupider than the toy.

[BENJAMIN  _starts to walk towards the_ HOMELESS]

PENNY: Stop it! Your mom said not to give him things anymore!

BENJAMIN: Penny, please. He tried to say something last week. Maybe he'll finally talk to me.

PENNY: You're stupid. Stop! He's dirty and smelly and it's not safe!

BENJAMIN: Says who?

PENNY: I'm going to go tell your mom!

[PENNY  _runs out of the Downstage Right exit._ ]

BENJAMIN: No!

[BENJAMIN  _starts towards the Downstage Right exit, then hesitates. He quickly approaches the_ HOMELESS.]

BENJAMIN: Dad.

[HOMELESS  _does not respond._ BENJAMIN  _looks frantically towards the Downstage Right exit. He puts his burger down next to the_ HOMELESS.]

BENJAMIN: I'll come back as soon as I can, okay?

[HOMELESS  _does not respond._ BENJAMIN  _stands quickly and starts to run towards the Downstage Right exit._ ]

BENJAMIN: Penny, stop being so mean!

[ _Enter_ DUKE  _Downstage Right._ DUKE  _and_ BENJAMIN  _collide._ ]

DUKE: Watch where you're going, you little, you uh...

[BENJAMIN  _Exits Downstage Right._ ]

DUKE: Yeah, you better run. Ugh, my head feels like it's split in two. I need a coffee.

[DUKE  _opens the door to the McDonalds and enters. A pause._ DUKE  _exits the McDonalds holding a cup of coffee. He notices the_ HOMELESS.]

DUKE: Well, well. Still here. No one cares about your little protest, okay? Just get a job.

[DUKE  _laughs and gestures towards the McDonalds._ ]

DUKE: I bet they'd hire you. To compensate, or something.

[ _A pause._ DUKE  _puts his free hand in his pocket and pulls out some pennies._ ]

DUKE: Look man, give it up. You're embarrassing yourself.

[DUKE  _drops the pennies next to the burger without leaning down._ ]

DUKE: At least show some decency and answer me, will ya?

[ _A pause._ ]

DUKE: If you're ignoring me because you think it's still my fault, I swear I'll kill you. Now stop being such an ass. No one pities you, we've all moved on. Everything's different now.

[ _A pause._ ]

DUKE: There was no way we could compete. It was my business as much as yours. You bastard, answer me!

[ _A pause._ DUKE  _pours his coffee on the_ HOMELESS]

DUKE: You self-righteous piece of trash! Fine, keep it up. See where it leaves you!

[ _A pause._ DUKE  _kicks the_ HOMELESS  _in the ribs. The_ HOMELESS  _slumps to the side, his hat still hiding his face._ DUKE  _pauses, watching the_ HOMELESS.  _He pulls out his wallet and lays a few bills down gently by the burger, away from the coffee._ ]

DUKE: Clean yourself up. Don't spend it on whatever drugs you're on right now, and keep your mouth shut.

[DUKE  _starts to walk towards the Downstage Left exit._ ]

DUKE: Their coffee is better.

[DUKE  _Exits Downstage Left._   _The_ HOMELESS  _remains perfectly still._   _The stage lights gradually turn orange, then red. People walk in and out of the McDonalds for a while, then stop coming. Enter_ STAN  _from the door to the McDonalds. He pulls out a key from his pocket and locks the door, then opens the fuse box and flicks two switches. The street lamps turn off._ STAN  _looks at the_ HOMELESS  _for a while._ ]

STAN: You'd better be gone before I come back tomorrow. You're makin' the whole place reek.

[ _Exit_ STAN  _Upstage Right._ ]


	5. Collecting Dust -- Poem! (Makes you think)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> War in every household. A short poem that finds humanity in dust.   
> I wrote this while I lived in Paris, during the Paris attacks and the new laws against immigration.

In the sun's mid-day tar

Flowing through windows despite resistance,

Run shattered pieces of existence

Not far from who we really are.

 

Stumbling, swerving, sinking down

And around they go on without end

As they retreat into the night.

But outside that binding light,

What is there?

 

Fragile souls trickle through the glass

Cast down from the sun, a forceful blast,

Calls reduced to dust.

Darkness.

Not gone, just forgotten.

Better than the blazes

I wonder.

 

Curtains crinkle, clammy hands

Their grips adorning heavy fabric,

Every manic in there pulling,

Dragging groaning tarps across

With taut knuckles, and lost hearts.

 

Windows boarded, stolen, hoarded.

Every broken one addressed,

"Time to clean up all this mess"

And with a grin they get to work.

 

Did I say they were forgotten?

Au contraire, mon ami.

Another sun has just awoken,

I think it's time for you to leave.

 

Big fat feathers, stuck together,

This is not what cleaning is.


	6. Black Thumb -- Poem! (Drama??)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This poem will change how you see dried flowers forever.

I have a fishbowl of dried roses,

Heads forcing their way out the top.

Dusty yellow petals with fading pink lips

Distract the eye from dark green stems,

Whose thorns have been picked.

 

My mother taught me how to dry them.

You start when they're alive and show signs

Of failing beauty, wilting will, it won't be long.

Tie the lot up with a rope and hang them

Upside down till they're mummified.

 

It takes a while, a week or two,

To draw out the watery soul and leave

Behind their bodies and foggy color.

I'd rather see this than watch them sag,

And start to smell like yesterday's spinach.

 

I haven't always dried my flowers,

They used to grow in a long clay pot

Outside my window, where they feel

Sun strike and run down their spines

Into the endlessly reused soil.

 

None ever lived to see the same season twice.

To let them live meant death by my hand.

I won't blame my youth.

Every plant planted by me and for me

Ended up orange and wheezing in its flowerbed.

 

All the time it took to notice

Coming home from school day by day,

The flowers pleading in choked, hoarse voices

Behind a window, and fluttery white curtains.

I stood there for minutes when I saw.

 

The latch stuck as if keeping me away.

I wrenched it open and a rush of wind,

Carrying the scent of rotting life,

Brushed on my cheeks and whispered:

_They needed you, because you put them there._

 

The first time I found them dead, I cried.

Salty tears ran down my cheeks and neck,

Clinging selfishly to my skin instead of dripping down.

I asked for more chances, and like a sociopath,

Never relived that initial shock of tears.

 

These days, people spot my flowers and say

 _Gosh how clever of you, dear, I could never think of it_.

Of course not, they'd never think of

Why I felt the need to dry my flowers

And keep hold of their corpses.


	7. The Perfume She Wears -- Poem! (aesthetic)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What does a child think their mother's perfume smells like?  
> ...boy are they in for a surprise.

A crystal bottle

On my mother's desk,

Glimmering under

White light.

 

They say that its scent

Can woo any heart,

I wish that I could

Try it.

 

Maybe I'll smell like

Roses in full bloom,

Lilacs or springtime

Sunshine.

 

Maybe I'll smell like

Grass and cicadas,

Pool water laced with

Chlorine.

 

Maybe I'll smell like

Pine needles and smoke,

Paper books left in

Closets.

 

Maybe I'll chance it

Reach over the rim,

Grab the vial with

Both hands.

 

Twist off the lid and

Push out the spray and

Realize at once

My fault.

 

Chemicals burning

My eyes and my nose,

Smelling like nothing

I know.

 

Nothing like roses,

Nothing like green grass,

Nothing like chestnuts,

Nothing like paper.

 

Nothing like springtime,

Nothing like summer,

Nothing like autumn,

Nothing like winter.

 

Filled with disgust I

Slam the perfume down,

Never to try it

Again.


End file.
